by Rob Ashman
‘Please close the door,’ Waite said, taking a seat behind her desk. ‘This is Frank Crosley from the Professional Standards Department.’
‘PSD? What’s this about, ma’am?’
‘Kelly, do you know a Martin Edwards?’ Crosley asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘He’s an ex-boyfriend. We were engaged to be married but split up about seven months ago.’
‘He’s made a serious accusation that you assaulted him in the Riverboat Arms public house earlier today. He said it was an unprovoked attack.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘You understand we have a duty to investigate all complaints?’ he replied.
‘I understand the role of PSD, and I can assure you he’s making it up,’ Pietersen shook her head and rolled her eyes.
‘He walked into a police station to report the assault,’ Crosley continued.
‘But it wasn’t like that, he put his hands on me and I defended myself.’
‘He disputes that account and has a witness statement from the barman who also says you attacked him first.’
‘Ma’am, I can assure you this is rubbish,’ she held her hands out in front of her palms facing up.
‘It’s Mr Crosley you need to talk to Kelly, not me,’ Waite replied.
‘The CCTV from inside the bar will confirm my version of events,’ Pietersen said.
‘We spoke to the barman and the CCTV is out of action.’
‘Bloody convenient. Just a second.’ Pietersen left the room and came back with Malice. ‘DS Malice was with me when Martin came into the pub.’
‘What happened, Mally?’ asked Waite.
‘Umm,’ Malice cleared his throat. ‘We were sitting at a table, discussing the Garrett case and this guy barged his way into the conversation. He was reeking of booze and slurring his words. I didn’t know who he was but it was obvious Kelly did. She asked him to leave on several occasions and he refused. It appeared to me that he wanted to provoke an argument, he was looking for a fight, but Kelly was having none of it. I asked if she needed assistance and she said ‘no’. He got more and more aggressive and grabbed her by the shoulder. Kelly defended herself and placed him in a restraining arm lock. The force used was appropriate. When she released him, he did a lot of swearing and left. That was it. Why, what’s this about?’
‘Would you be willing to make a statement to that effect?’ Crosley asked.
‘Of course. Has this Martin guy made a complaint?’ said Malice
‘He said I attacked him,’ said Pietersen.
‘Is anyone taking into account this guy was pissed as a fart?’ said Malice.
‘I can assure you we know how to deal with this, DS Malice,’ Crosley bristled.
Malice shook his head.
‘And I can assure you that is not what happened,’ Pietersen continued to protest.
‘Okay, I’m satisfied for now but I’ll need statements from both of you,’ Crosley got up to leave.
Waite dismissed Malice and Pietersen with a wave of her hand and they returned to their desks.
‘The little shit,’ Kelly said under her breath.
‘He seems a nasty piece of work, you’re better off with the Porsche,’ Malice replied.
‘Thanks for doing that. I owe you again.’
‘There’s only so much coke and crisps a guy can take.’
‘No seriously, thank you.’
‘When you came to get me and mentioned PSD I knew what must have happened. You’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.’
‘With everything we have on right now this is not what I need,’ she slumped back in her seat.
‘I thought at one point you were going to shove his head through the table.’
‘Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.’
‘Good job you didn’t.’
‘You said you had something to show me.’
‘Hey you two.’ It was Cooper. ‘Come and see what I’ve got.’
They scurried over to where she was sitting. She pushed her glasses onto the end of her nose and gestured at the screen in a ‘ta-da!’ kind of movement.
‘This is Garrett boarding the train at Paddington at 10.35 from platform seven and this is her caught on the onboard camera leaving the train at 11.43. A journey time of an hour and eight minutes which would put her at Fallgate Station. It took me a while to locate her because the train had been delayed coming into Paddington and consequently had a platform change.’ Cooper sat back, her record intact.
Malice and Pietersen stared at the two images on the screen.
‘I think we need another chat with the Von Traps,’ said Pietersen.
‘And a warrant. That’s amazing, Marjorie, thank you.’
Cooper pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose and gathered her things together.
‘I am the eyes of this police force, DS Malice, I see everything.’ She swept out of the room with an air of ‘my work here is done’.
‘You said you had something to show me,’ Pietersen asked.
‘It was what you said about Damien Kaplan leaving court.’
‘Honestly, it was freaky. I can’t get his face out of my head.’
‘You mean this face,’ Malice spun his laptop around to show the grinning features of Damien Kaplan.
‘Given they’d just been told the accused had attempted suicide – that is weird.’
‘I agree. So I did a spot of digging.’
‘And?’
‘The case involves a celebrity couple from the fashion business where the wife is accused of murdering her husband. They have a well-documented and turbulent relationship with a history of physical violence on both sides. He’s reported missing by his agent and the wife knows nothing about his whereabouts. His blood has been found in the marital home but so far, they’ve not uncovered his body. She denies the charge but there is a ton of circumstantial which points the finger at her.’
‘Why are you tell me this?’
‘One of the reasons they’ve been unable to find the husband is he left his mobile phone at home on the day he went missing. Does that sound familiar?’
Chapter 42
I open the kiln and remove the metal trays. They are warm to the touch but not too hot to handle. One by one I tip the powdered ash into a plastic container and snap the lid shut. Callum’s remains have filled it nicely.
My initial flush of rage has subsided and chopping his body into bite sized chunks definitely helped. But the anger remains.
He’s ugly. She’s breaking the contract.
If she wanted to screw someone ugly — she has me. She doesn’t need to go elsewhere.
I’ve spent the whole day in my workshop and I’m parched and famished. I take the plastic container and head to the house. Elsa is in the kitchen.
‘Oh hi, I was wondering when you’d surface,’ she says, coming over to give me a kiss. I skirt around the other side of the table to avoid her.
‘I’m going out.’
‘You’re not still annoyed, are you?’
‘No I’m not annoyed.’
‘That’s good, because, as I said, nothing—’
‘I’m fucking furious.’
‘Oh, come on, Damien don’t be like that. I’ll make it up to you,’ she says, reaching across and grabbing my hand. ‘Do you fancy something special?’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Maybe not now, but when you get back…’
‘Are you going to give up chasing that copper into bed?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m not interested.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Damien. What’s got into you?’
‘I’m off out.’
I storm out of the house and get into my car. The engine cranks over and I speed away. I can’t get the vision of Elsa writhing around in our bed with that bastard out of my head. The picture stays with me all the way to the quarry.
I get out and weave my
way through the fence to the rim of the overhang. The water at the bottom is black and still; it looks like crude oil. The lid snaps open and I bring out a heaped handful of Callum. My fingers unfurl and he takes off on the wind. It’s not the last journey he’s going to make. I have a competition coming up and the dear boy will be taking pride of place. He’s coming to Leeds with me.
I try to visualise the design of the piece I intend to make, but Elsa barges into my head again. That bloody copper is stood in our kitchen with his trousers around his ankles, she’s on her knees giving him the Dyson treatment.
I bury my hand in the ash and throw a fistful into the air.
Now she’s on all fours and he’s banging her from behind.
The next handful gets hurled.
The sweat on his back is glistening as he fucks my wife to a standstill. She’s wailing like an ally-cat.
I throw the container and watch it clatter down the steep embankment to the water below; clouds of ash catching on the breeze.
Elsa’s breaking the contract.
She wants to fuck an Ugly.
Chapter 43
P ietersen picked her way between the puddles of questionable origin to reach the mid-way point in the underpass. The acrid stink of piss rasped at the back of her throat. She checked her phone then tutted to herself. She was early.
She’d wanted to time her journey so she spent as little time in this cesspit as possible. Now all she could do was try not to gag as she was waiting. The mould covering the walls seemed to have spread since she was last here. The click-click-click of marching heels grew louder and Ryan Anderson appeared at the opposite entrance. He strode towards her, oblivious to the puddles.
‘We met this morning, is there a problem?’ he squawked when he was in earshot.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I got into a scrape with an ex-boyfriend and he’s lodged a formal complaint. PSD are involved. I don’t think it jeopardises the operation but I thought you needed to know right away.’
‘Fuck! What happened?’ Standing beside her, he flicked a cigarette from the packet and lit up.
‘He grabbed me in a pub and I restrained him. He’s saying I attacked him first and the barman is supporting his version of events.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘Malice was with me and will provide a statement saying it was self-defence and reasonable force was used.’
‘What did the person from PSD say?’
‘He said it was fine for now and he’d be in touch.’
‘Shit, Kelly, what were you thinking?’ Anderson walked around his small circles with his hands stuffed in his pockets, blowing smoke around.
‘I was thinking of not getting beaten up — that’s what I was thinking,’ she shrieked back at him.
He stopped and shook his head, puffing away like he was about to chuck the habit forever. ‘We can’t get involved, it would compromise your position.’
‘I don’t want you involved. The purpose of this conversation is to keep you in the picture, that’s all.’
‘Let’s hope your ex drops the complaint when he learns about the witness statement.’
‘Yeah, he might not,’ she shook her head.
‘Okay, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. How’s it going with Malice?’
Pietersen coughed and waved her hands in front of her face as a cloud of smoke enveloped her.
‘Fucking hell, Ryan, as if this place wasn’t bad enough.’
‘Sorry.’ He tossed what was left of the fag onto the floor, not bothering to stub it out with his foot. The piss would take care of it.
‘I think I’m getting somewhere. He started to open up about Bullseye and Wrigley but then it all kicked off at the pub and he went silent on me.’
‘That’s good. You seem to be gaining his trust. I’m sure this complaint will fizzle out. Apologies that I reacted the way I did. It’s just–’
‘I know, there a lot riding on this.’
‘There is. Are we done?’ he half-turned to walk away.
‘I don’t think it’s him.’
‘Who, Malice?’
‘I know he fits the profile, but I think we’re barking up the wrong tree.’
Anderson stepped in front of her and cocked his head to one side. She screwed up her face at his ashtray breath.
‘Are you serious, Kelly? Operation Honeywell has been a huge success. We’ve recovered close on eight million pounds worth of assets and seized as much again in drugs. Everything Casper has given us has been absolute gold: warehouses, counting houses, trade routes – the full shebang. Not to mention a fistful of bad people who are now behind bars.’
Pietersen turned away and slapped her arms to her sides, it was her turn to walk in small circles. For once, ignoring the puddles.
‘I’ve read the files so I know all that, but there’s a nagging voice at the back of my head telling me it’s not him.’
Anderson grabbed her arm, blocking her path.
‘Now listen, Kelly, you need to stick with this. Casper went into witness protection and has been singing better than Susan Boyle ever since. He told us there was a bent copper in this division, so we ran the numbers and came up with Malice. You know the type: he has a prickly association with authority, he’s been had up on multiple disciplinary charges, has a stalled career, a broken marriage, two houses to finance – the list goes on. You have to admit he fits the bill.’
Pietersen yanked her arm free and shoved herself into his personal space.
‘You don’t think I know all that?’ she hissed the words through gritted teeth. ‘But I can’t help feeling we’re looking in the wrong place.’
Anderson backed away.
‘It’s natural that you have doubts, you’ve formed a good relationship with him. You said yourself you’re gaining his trust. It takes time.’
‘Make up your mind! The other day you were pushing me for results!’
‘I know, but that’s my job. I need to know that every day you’re moving things along. You’re doing great – don’t let yourself be knocked off course.’
She stared at the floor, grinding her teeth.
‘Okay.’
‘Same place, same time tomorrow?’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
Malice pounded his fist into the bag and the chains jolted against their fixings in the roof. He followed through with a left hook and a straight right. When the bag swung back, he gave it a savage right hook; heaving out a roar as he did so.
He needed to clear his head, to rid himself of the problems of the day. This was the best way he knew how.
Jim was dancing around the ring with a couple of youngsters, demonstrating some nifty footwork. He moved like someone forty years his junior.
‘Balls of your feet, balls of your feet!’ he chanted. ‘Sideways step, balls of your feet.’ The two men dancing next to him where gloved up and wearing head guards. ‘Right, let’s go again.’ Jim stepped aside and the men squared up to each other.
Malice removed his gloves and towelled the sweat from his face. When he’d arrived over an hour ago his shoulders ached and his neck hurt — the occupational hazard of someone who spends their time sitting down and staring at a laptop for a living. He rolled his head from side to side and walked to the changing room.
That’s better.
The place room was empty. Malice showered and changed out of his kit into casual clothes. The only thing that wasn’t casual were the steel toe-capped boots he pulled on and laced up tight. He reached up and brought down the medical kit from a shelf and opened it up. After fishing around, he found the pack of razor blades. He removed one, unwrapped it from the waxy paper and wound off a length of sticking plaster. He repeated the process twice more and put the box back where he found it.
Then he made his way across the gym to the door marked Exit.
‘You didn’t fancy t
aking on that little ball again then?’ Jim yelled at him.
‘Bollocks!’
‘Yeah, that’s what’s in your head.’
Malice didn’t turn around. He flipped Jim the middle finger and walked out into the night air. He flung his kitbag into the back and slid into the driver’s seat.
The problem was, Malice needed to be in two places at once — preferably three. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and resorted to his favourite method of choosing:
If it was me, what would I do?
He turned the key and set off.
The petrified rubber on the wiper blades did nothing but smear the rain across the windscreen. He cursed and slowed down, unable to see. The headlights of the cars coming towards him dazzled through the thin film of water. It was a shit car, for sure, but it did have one redeeming feature — Vasco and his men had never seen it before.
After driving for fifteen minutes he pulled over against the kerb, flipped open the glove compartment and stuffed the gun down the back of his jeans.
If it was me, I’d go for Hayley.
He stepped out, wrapped the collar of his coat around his neck and tugged the peak of his cap over his eyes. The streetlights washed the road in an orange glow. He walked towards No.37, scanning left and right as he went. At the entrance to the drive he bent down to fiddle with his laces. One last check. Nothing.
Malice strolled up the front steps and pushed a key into the lock. The front door swung open and he went inside.
If Hayley knew I had a key she’d go ape-shit.
He unloaded his bulging pockets; several lengths of chord, two rolls of duct tape and a knife. He went through the house, drawing the curtains and switching on the lights.
Mitchell had seemed old school when Malice met him by the lake. He was gambling on his methods being old school as well.
This would be a two-man job. The first guy goes around the back of the house while the other knocks on the front door. When the home owner opens the door the second guy engages them in conversation: ‘I wonder could you help me, I’m looking for a Mr Williamson, I think he lives around here?’ The guy at the back gains entry to the property and waits. When the conversation ends the homeowner goes back to watching Casualty or whatever and is over powered. Once secured, the first guy lets the second guy into the house. And then the fun begins. Tried and tested, works every time.
